


The Closer

by Dumbtard (sophiethung)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hate Sex, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lance (Voltron)-centric, M/M, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Redemption, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-03-29 23:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13937286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiethung/pseuds/Dumbtard
Summary: Voltron is hit by a surprise attack after a successful mission, leaving them completely defenseless and vulnerable. Lance is captured by the Galra prince Lotor, and is subjected to the druids for weeks before he is brought to Lotor's personal quarters.For all team Voltron knows, Lance is dead. They have no idea of Lotor's interest in the blue paladin, or the ruthlessness their friend is handled with.(a fic loosely based on Killing Stalking)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so i wrote this before season 5, so Lotor may seem uncharacteristically sadistic here at first.

“Keith!” Lance whines, giving a sharp tug to the control to avoid ramming into Red, Blue humming low in surprise and frustration. “What where you’re going!”

“You were moving too slow!” Keith’s voice sounds over the comm, shooting up the way it does when he feels pressurized. Lance flexed his hands on the control, blood boiling. “You gotta keep up!”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, _Keith,_ ” Lance snaps, “but _no one_ can keep up with you! If you weren’t so simple, maybe you would’ve noticed!”

“Lance,” says Shiro sternly, his voice static and distant as it echoes through Blue’s cockpit,” try to speed things up. And Keith-“ he says, just as Lance opens his mouth to protest, “you _could_ try to stay synced with the rest of us. This mission is important, and I can’t have you going off on your own.”

Keith grumbles something incoherent, and Lance rolls his eyes. _Maybe_ he could do to go a little faster, but even then, he’ll never catch up to Keith’s speed.

“I’m picking up three frequencies. Prepare to avoid their ion cannons as soon as they drop out of warp,” says Allura, her face appearing on the screen to Lance’s right momentarily. There’s a concentrated frown on her face, and strands of silvery white hair fall from the bun twisted on her head. She looks beautiful, even like this, and Lance smiles, knowing fully his camera is off.

“Don’t worry, Princess,” he says, tapping on his screen to turn on his camera, “we got you covered.”

“Lance,” says Pidge, her voice high in pitch. “Don’t let your guard down.”

Lance sighs, and pointedly rolls his eyes again. He knows fully that he shouldn’t relax – he doesn’t – but he also knows if he’s too tense, it won’t help anyone either. Hunk and Pidge, especially, are easily affected. If Lance loses his cool now, they won’t be far behind.

“Here they come,” says Hunk, a second before Lance spots the lighted beacon on his window, announcing the approaching Galra vessels. Sure enough, a moment later three standard command ships appear in the distance, dropping out of warp a few kilometers away.

Just as Allura predicted, the bright beams of the ion cannons are upon them immediately, and Lance grunts as he yanks the controls to the left, narrowly avoiding being blasted to death.

Not wasting any time, Blue bursts forward, chasing straight after the neck of the left command ship, opening her mechanic maw to let loose a powerful burst of ice, freezing the purple metal of the ship. They speed up, the communication between them non-existent yet their coordination flawless.

Lance whoops excitedly when he crashes into the ice, tearing clean through the ship, break it in half with hot fire erupting around him.

Blue purrs contently, her satisfaction rippling through Lance as well.

When his windows clear, he spots Shiro, Pidge and Hunk taking down the middle ship, while Keith takes the last. Lance sits back and watches the way Red pulls off elaborate maneuvers faster than he can follow, destroying the ship in a far flashier manner than Lance had. She fits Keith perfectly, in that aspect 

“Was that all of them?” Coran says, and his voice sounds distant, probably because he’s speaking over Allura’s comm instead of his own.

“Yes,” Allura replies, her voice much clearer. She sounds relieved, and Lance smiles inwardly again. She worries about them often, even if she trusts in their abilities entirely. “We just received a distress beacon from a nearby planet, so hurry back.”

“Alright team,” says Shiro, and Lance sits up, hands flying to the controls again. “Keith, good job taking down that ship all by yourself – that was some nice flying. Hunk and Pidge, thanks for the assist. Now, let’s get back. 

Lance pushes forward, ready to detach himself from the metal of the ship he just destroyed, when something crashes into Blue, and he’s thrown from his seat. He’s flying, for just a second, before his head connects with the wall and the world goes black around him. 

* * *

 

Lance wakes with a groan. His head’s pounding incessantly, and light floods his vision, blinding him. He’s on a floor, sprawled on his stomach, and it only takes a few wiggles for him to find out his hands are tied behind his back, restraining him.

Slowly, his vision clears, revealing the rows of purple lights and feet clad in black boots. His cheek is pressed against the cold metal, the only thing soothing in this room.

His heart races, because he knows where he is, and it sends fear rippling through him despite himself.

“-the lion?” an awfully raspy voice says somewhere above him. It’s vaguely familiar, but Lance can’t place it exactly, which is infinitely frustrating. He assumes it’s talking about Blue, and Lance wonders where she is, and if he can call her. He tries, but he can’t feel her presence anywhere nearby. These Galra ships are huge, after all.

“The other paladins managed to reclaim it before we could secure it,” says another voice, one much deeper than the first, but also less powerful. It sounds nearly fearful, but not informally so. “However, we suspect Voltron will not be able to be formed for some time without its current Blue paladin.”

“How long do you think we have?” a third voice – a smooth and nearly soothing one – sounds, and Lance cranes his neck to see the speaker, but he only comes to face two stoic Galra guards, confirming his suspicion of his whereabouts.

“According to our intelligence, the Yellow paladin is quite attached to the Blue paladin. However, it is not clear how severely this loss will affect him.”

Hunk. Lance bites his lip. Hunk won’t be consolable about this – for how long, Lance doesn’t know himself, but he _does_ know that Hunk will want to find him. It’s good that they got Blue back, but Lance doesn’t think it’s a good idea to try and rescue him without the ability to form Voltron.

“What does that matter?” the soothing voice sounds, and now Lance can hear the chilling edge to it. He freezes, feeling a shiver run down his spine.

“The paladins need to be emotionally connected to be able to form Voltron. The more they grieve this paladin’s capture, the more difficult it will be for them to find a new paladin,” the raspy voice says, snidely. “If what you say is true, and-“

“He’s awake,” says the soothing voice. Lance freezes, his breath catching in his throat. There’s sounds of shuffling behind him, and then he’s being pulled up by his hair, his back bending uncomfortably.

“Well.”

There’s a cloaked figure in front of him, head bent low and long white hair flowing out from under a purple hood, dead and frayed-looking. Lance can only see a sliver of a pointy, purple chin, the rest of the figure’s face hidden by shadow. He wouldn’t be able to recognize the figure if it weren’t for the glowing slits peeking out.

“Haggar,” Lance rasps, his throat suddenly dry, his lips chapped. His heart beats painfully in his chest, and his breath comes in ragged gasps, sounding infinitely louder than they probably are.

“I did not give you permission to speak,” Haggar says in that awful voice, sharp and deadly. “Bring him to the druids. See what they can get out of him.”

Two pairs of hands close around Lance’s arms, and he is being dragged away.

“N-No,” he whimpers, fear closing around his throat and cutting off the air to his lungs. His head spins and bile rises from his stomach, but he keeps it down, forcefully. “P-please, don’t do this!”

He’s heard of the druids and what they can do, of course – Shiro hadn’t been exactly open about _his_ time with them, but then he wasn’t the only one who’d escaped. Even just the stories terrified him, and he often found himself looking at Shiro, thinking _how the hell did he survive that?_

To think that now, while he struggles and thrashes in the grip of those strong Galra guards, he’s being taken to the druids sends him into a panic. His breath comes in ragged gasps, shorter and more frantic than before, and tears prickle in his eyes.

“Please,” he begs, though Haggar already disappeared from his sight, and nobody can hear him now. “Please, let me go.”

In his mind, he makes a promise not to say anything – he won’t give up his friends – but his earlier hope that they look for him has disappeared, and is replaced by a desperate prayer that they _will,_ because he knows he won’t last long.

His feet drag over the floor, and he cranes his neck back to see where they’re taking him, but he sees nothing but the moving legs of the massive guards taking him away and the bleak cells and rooms they pass, all identical and all terrifyingly big.

He whimpers and begs until they stop, and by that time tears are freely streaming down his face, and he’s choked up too much to talk. His head pounds still, and he feels hot blood streaming from the side of his head down to his neck, no doubt from his impact with the wall.

The guards take him into a dark room with a round basin in the middle. They throw him in unceremoniously, and pain erupts in his knees as they crash against the floor. Black water surrounds him, no deeper than a few inches, but Lance feels like he’s drowning anyway, pure fear engulfing him.

Four cloaked figures appear at the edge of the pool, their hands raised and faces covered with metal masks with slits for their eyes. Somewhere, vaguely, in the back of his mind, Lance is reminded of snakes, but then their hands light up purple and lightning strikes the water.

He screams. His body is on fire and he can’t breathe.

The world goes black yet again. 

* * *

 

Lance has been here for weeks. Shiro had been here for a year. 

Is he really that much weaker than Shiro? In the eyes of the Galra, is he so frail they’re afraid to break him this easily?

After the thirty-sixth day, they send someone to collect the remnants of him from the pool, and he’s carried like a life-less rag to a cell – one very similar to the one Shiro said was exactly like his own.

Lance has been stripped of his armor for some time now – all that clings so his body is the black suit he wore underneath, and even this has been torn to shreds. Lance can’t find himself to care.

He’s numb.

His body doesn’t feel the pain of being thrown on the cold, hard floor, and his mind is too broken to care that it smells like rotten bodies in here, and that there’s no bed, only mold.

He only cares for what little warmth he has and how to keep it, and how much time he has until they come for him again.

Lance crawls to the corner, and draws his knees to his chest, shivering in the cold, damp air that taunts his skin. He doesn’t let his mind drift anywhere but the time – if he thinks about anything other than how many seconds there’s been, and how many minutes he’s into this hour, he’s done for. One thought that strays will be picked up, he knows.

He doesn’t think of how miserable he is. He doesn’t think of how desperately he wants this relentless torture to be over. He doesn’t think about how long he’s spent choking on black water, sobbing as the lightning strikes him _over and over again._ But least of all does he think of his team, and how they’re faring without him.

Is Pidge sleeping well? Has Keith learned that new trick yet? Have Coran and Allura fixed the castle completely yet? Are Shiro’s nightmares still haunting him? Is- Is Hunk doing alright without him?

They leave him there for hours, a pathetic, shivering mess, rocking back and forth, counting the ticks as they tick by, until the heavy doors slide open again, revealing a tall, broad Galra Lance has never seen before.

He can immediately tell he’s different, though.

For one, the Galra is wearing armor Lance has never seen before. Allura made them memorize all symbols the Galra wear on their chests, and this star is something Lance is not familiar with. It spreads out from the middle of his chest out in sharp, blue spikes.

Maybe he’s some kind of special unit? No, Allura knows those as well.

The symbol isn’t what draws Lance’s attention, though. Like all high-ranking officers, this Galra’s head is exposed, revealing long, flowing, silvery white locks and pale, purple skin.

Lance is suddenly struck by how _human_ this Galra seems, with a straight nose and thins lips and _blue_ eyes – he’s striking, really, and not at all like the beast-like Galra Lance has seen before.

If the Galra notices Lance staring despite himself, he doesn’t show it. Instead he merely stalks over, his face impassive, and picks Lance off the floor like a rag doll and slings him over his shoulder.

“Where are you taking me?” Lance squeaks before he can stop himself. His heart is pounding in his chest, no matter how much he tells himself this guy can’t be worse than the druids. The Galra’s armored shoulder jabs painfully in his stomach with every step, and his head swims after just a few seconds.

The Galra doesn’t answer him, though Lance isn’t sure if that’s a relief or not. They turn a few corners and then suddenly Lance is gracelessly thrown into a room, and he cries out as his knees buckle beneath him.

Lance coughs and looks up at the Galra towering over him. His heart pounds painfully in his chest, and his lungs burn, even if he’s breathing fine. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, why he’s here.

“Please,” he says, his voice croaky and broken from days of screaming in the dark, “what do you want from me?”

The Galra smirks, then, and slams his foot into Lance’s side.

Lance sees stars. Pain erupts in his side, and he doubles over, wheezing, curling on the floor. He screams, briefly, and whimpers, tears springing in his eyes. He knows his ribs are broken – he can just tell.

“Ah,” he whines, choking on his tears. “Ah-hah.”

His vision blurs, but not enough to mask the Galra looming above him. The Galra leans down, crouching beside Lance’s much smaller, trembling body. He smirks, and Lance wonders why he ever thought this man was beautiful – he’s terrible, and terrifying.

“Now, now,” says the Galra, and it’s the same soothing voice from his first day here. Lance flinches as the Galra brushes a few strands of short hair from his face, his palm warm against Lance’s cheek. “Don’t cry, Blue paladin.”

Lance sobs, fear coursing through him like a freight train.

“Didn’t I just say don’t cry?” the Galra says, firmer this time. Lance bites his lip to keep from making any more sounds, but he can’t stop the wetness flowing on his cheeks. The Galra clicks his tongue, and picks Lance up again like he weighs nothing, before he throws him like a sack of potatoes.

For a second Lance fears the impact that will surely come, but then something soft catches him, and he bounces up before coming down again.

A bed.

Lance’s eyes widen in surprise, and his fingers curls into the sheets, just to make sure it’s real. It’s really a bed – a soft one, at that – and for the first time Lance bothers to take in the rest of the room.

It’s a big room, with dim, orange lights lining the purple walls. The decorations are simple, with a steel drawer pushed against one of the walls, and a couch and a low table by the other. The bed takes up most of the room, and it’s truly massive – far bigger than even a Galra would need. There’s a door to the left of the bed, likely leading to the bathroom.

Lance stops looking around then, because the Galra leaps onto the bed next to him, landing softly on his feet, his body stripped of his armor. He’s in a black suit quite similar to Lance’s, but this one is clean and untorn.

The Galra regards Lance for a second in silence, and Lance shifts uncomfortably, flinching when the movement makes the pain in his ribs flare up. Still, he can’t help but fidget under the Galra’s cold yet strangely intrigued gaze.

“What do you want?” Lance spits, feeling oddly spirited after being kicked harder than he’s ever been. Maybe it’s because this Galra’s not doing anything except _staring,_ and Lance is fucking nervous, but he feels the need to do _something._

The Galra pays him no mind, and continues to watch him, like a cat watching a bird up high in a tree.

Lance waits, expecting the worst. He waits for the sharp pain of a knife being pushed into his flesh, or the burn of fire held to his skin, or the shocks of lightning coursing over his limbs, but none come.

He doesn’t expect the Galra to take his chin firmly in his hand and press their lips together.

Lance tries to recoil, but the Galra keeps him in place, keeps their lips locked. Lance splutters and coughs, tries to breathe in through his nose, but he’s too confused, and too disoriented.

The Galra’s lips are soft.

“My name is Lotor,” the Galra – Lotor, then – says, against Lance’s lips, and then pulls away, an amused expression on his face. Lance realizes he must be blazing red, not from arousal, but merely because he’s flustered, oddly enough. “You’ll be staying with me for some time.”

It’s as if Lotor snapped Lance out a trance.

Lance’s eyes fly open and he pushes himself away from Lotor, scrambling as best he can with all the pain to the headboard, his vision red with rage.

“Like hell I am!” he says, pulling his legs to his chest and levelling Lotor with a glare he hopes chills his insides colder than they already are.

Lotor merely raises an eyebrow, and the hairs on the back of Lance’s neck stand on ends.

“Fine then,” Lotor says softly, shuffling forward. “Then sleep.”

Lotor’s face shifting into an unimpressed frown is the last thing Lance sees before Lotor’s fist connects with the side of Lance’s head, and the world, annoyingly, goes black again. 

* * *

 

 _I really need to stop falling asleep in the commons,_ Lance thinks vaguely, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He feels like he slept exactly five seconds, but then he usually feels like that when he sleeps on the couch.

He stills, knuckle still against his eye, and he sucks in a deep breath.

He’s not in the castle, and he hasn’t been sleeping.

Lance opens his eyes slowly, as if that’ll lessen the blow.

It doesn’t.

He still flinches when he opens his eyes and sees the big bed stretching through the room, and the dim orange lights illuminating the evidence that Lotor _had_ in fact slept next to him that night.

Lance shivers, and then realizes that his legs are covered by the covers, and then that his upper undersuit had been removed. There are bandages wrapped around his torso, and when Lance touches his ribs, they hurt significantly less than they had the night before.

Lotor isn’t in the room, and Lance sighs in relief. He lets himself wonder, for just a second, if the others have been looking for him yet. He’s been gone for weeks, so maybe they’ve given up already. But then, they never gave up on Shiro – even if Lance isn’t nearly as vital as Shiro, he still has to hope.

In truth, Lance is scared. He was tortured for _weeks,_ and barely held out, even though Shiro endured it for so much longer, and now Lotor himself – his information Allura provided only coming back to Lance now – has taken an interest in him for some twisted reason.

He has no idea how long he’ll be here, what Lotor wants from him, or what he’s going to be forced to endure. He doesn’t like the implications of that kiss yesterday – was that yesterday? – but his body is all he needs to give up – as fucked up as it may be – then he’ll do it.

Lance isn’t left to his thoughts long, though, because suddenly the door on the opposite end of the room slides open and Lotor steps in, fully clad in armor and a frustrated scowl on his face. It melts when he sees Lance, and is replaced by something far, far worse.

A smile.

“Ah, you’re awake?” Lotor says in that deep voice, and Lance suppresses a shiver. “I just got scolded by that witch, Haggar, for keeping you to myself. She says she still needs to get intel out of you.”

Lance shifts, creeping as far away from Lotor as he can, until he reaches the headboard. From there, he watches as Lotor strips down to his under armor and drops down to the floor.

“I told her you wouldn’t give anything up,” Lotor says as he pushes himself off the floor, apparently thinking so little of Lance to do exercise while he’s right there. “Besides, what she couldn’t get out of you, I will.”

Lance shivers. Lotor says it so casually, like he’s discussing some disliked individual’s outfit rather than Lance’s mind and wellbeing.

Lotor stands, stretching to his full height – he’s truly massive, like any other Galra, but rather than blunt and burly, his body is graceful and Lance doesn’t like it one bit. He breathes in through his nose as Lotor walks closer, his suit moving with his muscle, and a predatory look in his eyes.

Lotor’s fingers close around Lance’s arm, and suddenly Lance is being yanked off the bed, but Lotor keeps him up just enough to lower him to the ground carefully.

“What are you doing?” Lance asks frantically, panic rising in his throat. Lotor doesn’t answer – seemingly he never does – and he grabs Lance’s other hand. With one hand he holds Lance’s hands above his head, crowding over him with his entire body, and with the other hand he presses something cold and hard to his wrists.

A click echoes through the room, and Lotor releases Lance’s hands, but when he tries to move them apart to steady himself, he finds them shackled together.

“What is this?”

“From now on you sleep here,” Lotor says, patting the underside of the bedframe, “under the bed.”

A sudden rage floods through Lance, and he scoffs, through he’s terrified. “Hell no! I’m not some animal!”

“Aren’t you?” Lotor asks, tilting his head to the side. Lance gasps, because Lotor says it so quietly, so gently, yet it sends ripples travelling down his spine, and he falls quiet, unable to say any more.

Then Lotor leaves, and Lance stays, legs folded awkwardly beneath him and hands chained together. When he tries to move away from the bedpost, he finds he can only pull his hands away so far before he’s pulled back in, painfully and harshly.

So he sits there, in silence, left to his own thoughts. He listens to the dull drone of the ship’s engines, and the occasional clicks of the sentries making their rounds outside the room.

In his mind, he attempts to formulate a plan, a means of escape, but he keeps being distracted by the nothingness of everything around him. His limbs quickly start to ache, and doubt starts to creep into his head.

He decides, finally, it’s best to keep quiet around Lotor, for now. That way, he won’t accidentally reveal anything, and he’ll make this a whole lot easier for himself. Defying Lotor is probably the most idiotic thing he could do. No, staying alive is most important right now.

He shivers, Lotor’s words suddenly resonating in his mind.

He feels as if he’s being watched. Constantly.

He feels as if he’s choking on the silence that engulfs him, left to his own devices, nobody to keep him warm anymore. 

* * *

 

Lance spends his days either cowering under the bed or on his knees, scrubbing the floor, keeping his head low and his mouth shut.

The space under the bed is dark and cold, and Lance truly feels like an animal every time he cowers as Lotor moves above him. Lotor knows it too – there are times he’ll make Lance stay under the bed as a punishment, sometimes for days on end. The ground is cold and hard, and Lance wakes with a crick in his neck most of the days, and lungs full of dust.

He’s decided surviving is in his best interest now and lowering himself to do Lotor’s bidding is the best way to go about it.

Lotor had made it very clear in his second day in Lotor’s chamber what was waiting for him should he do anything out of line.

Lance doesn’t want to go back to the druids ever again.

Still, that means living with his shoulders tense and his knees aching.

Lotor is most often found sitting on the couch, nimble fingers flying over a touch-pad, softly conversing with anyone who comes up on his screen.

He’s always waiting for Lance to make a mistake – when he does, Lotor goes loose, driving his fists into Lance’s face with such force he’s out every time, or dragging the sharp knife across his skin just enough to graze him. And yet, despite the fact that Lotor is obviously as strong as Allura, Lance suspects Lotor never uses more than half his strength.

The constant shifting is driving Lance insane. One moment Lotor is calmly asking him questions – trivial things like what his favorite food is, if he’s ever had his heart broken by a woman – and then the next he’ll be tearing Lance apart with his hands, maiming him just enough to keep him alive. He lives in fear, always watching for the subtle shifts in Lotor’s behavior.

Lance knows Lotor doesn’t hurt him for self-gratification, either; he does it to Lance on edge. He does it to see how long he’ll last.

And Lance isn’t sure how long he will.

The tension in the air is so thick Lance feels as if he’s choking. He fears every mistake, every tremble in his own hands as much as he fears the druids. Every sound Lotor makes, every twitch of his hands has Lance cowering like a child. He feels pathetic.

His body’s constant screaming in protest has turned to a dull ache that never leaves, and his arms have turned useless under the strain of the cuffs. His wrists are cut up and bloody, and Lance is sure if his suit didn’t cover it up, he would be able to see the blue and purple covering every crevice of his body.

“When was the last time you bathed?"

Lance stills, the cleaning rag slipping from his fingers into the bucket, his heart pounding. He can’t remember.

“I don’t know,” Lance says shakily. He doesn’t look Lotor in the eye – he didn’t wake up for two days the last time he made the mistake of glancing up into the deep blue of Lotor’s eyes – but he does lift his head.

Lotor huffs, seemingly disinterested, and stands, leaving his data-tablet on the table and making his way to Lance in three long strides. He crouches in front of him like a cat – gracefully. He taps the metal around Lance’s wrists once and it beeps.

Air rushes onto Lance’s red and raw wrists for the first time in _god knows how long,_ and numbed pain suddenly comes flooding back to him, and Lance bites his lip to keep from crying out.

He must’ve made some kind of noise, because Lotor makes a shushing sound and runs his fingers through Lance’s greasy hair. Lance makes an effort not to flinch away from him, though this kind of affection from Lotor can only mean an outburst later.

“Stand up,” Lotor says softly, but Lance does not miss the commanding tone lurking beneath Lotor’s lulling voice.

Lance rises to his feet unsteadily, leaning back against the wall for support. This proves too much – merely standing, that is – and Lance’s knees betray him, buckling under his weight after being folded, uselessly under him for so long.

This time he cannot stop the whimper that forces its way past his lips as he crumbles to the ground, the blood only now rushing to his feet.

“Ah,” says Lotor, and Lance clenches his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to see the blow that’s sure to come. “That won’t do.”

Then Lance feels himself being lifted off the ground, and, out of shock, he can’t help but gape dumbly at Lotor as he slips under Lance’s arm. Lance tenses, all his instincts screaming at him to run, but Lotor merely blinks at him before dragging him to the bathroom. Lance bites his tongue to refrain from saying anything.

Lance considers, for a fleeting moment, putting up a fight. He imagines himself struggling, clawing at Lotor’s face, before running out of the room. He would scream, run, do _whatever,_ with the full knowledge that he’d never make it out alive.

Then, as some cruel reminder of his actual situation, his toe skids over the cold floor, and pain shoots up through his entire leg. Lance clamps down on the inside of his cheek, hard enough to draw blood, just to keep from making a sound.

If Lotor notices, he doesn’t show it.

Lance’s arm barely grows numb from its position, uncomfortably up on Lotor’s broad shoulder when Lotor lowers him to the bathroom floor with surprising care. Normally the top of Lance’s head barely reaches Lotor’s chin, but for some reason Lotor seems to be compensating by crouching down a little.

Lance doesn’t like it one bit.

Lotor clicks his tongue. “The bandages are so dirty,” he says, eyes fixed on Lance’s chest. Lance looks down, and nearly chokes on his own breath.

The bandages, which were once white, are now yellow and brown with dirt and sweat. Not only that, but they’re loose around his torso, while they were once tight. His chest has been reduced to nothing – it’s nothing more than a pile of bones.

Lance feels tainted.

Without asking for his permission, Lotor loosens the knot keeping the bandages together, his hands not particularly careful with Lance’s ribs.

When Lotor’s fingers brush over Lance’s chest, he flinches, pain shooting over his skin, but Lotor pays him no mind. Why would he?

“Sit up,” Lotor says, and Lance does as he’s told, far too tired to put up a fight. Lotor reaches up on the sink and takes a pair of scissors – why he has those there is a mystery to Lance – to cut away the bandages.

Lance sighs in relief once his skin is bare, but he doesn’t dare look down. He doesn’t want to see pale skin and deep shadows and protruding bones.

Instead he watches Lotor’s face. Lotor’s brow furrows for a moment, but then he reaches behind Lance. Lance can’t help but flinch this time, but then he realizes Lotor has only reached for the shower head and turned it on.

The warm water, after so long, is complete ecstasy. Forgetting himself for a moment, Lance sighs and lets his eyes fall shut, relishing in the hot stream through his hair.

When the water reaches his torso, it burns a little, but Lance can’t find himself to care. Only when he feels a cold hand work through his hair does he come back to himself.

His eyes snap open, and Lotor smiles at him.

Lotor turns back to his work of shampooing Lance’s hair, rubbing the soap into his scalp with his fingertips. Lance’s heart is pounding in his chest – he’s so afraid.

It doesn’t take long before Lotor’s hands start to wonder down to his neck, and then his shoulders, stopping at his collarbone.

When Lotor looks at him again it’s different from all the others times Lance has seen his face. Lotor opens his mouth and closes it again, before sighing and frowning at Lance’s chest.

“Does this hurt?” Lotor asks, his voice quieter and gentler than Lance has ever heard it – for the first time, he can hear the full extent of the deep rumble in his throat and the soothing drawl of his words that sound so similar to Allura’s.

Lance is about to ask what is supposed to hurt, but then Lotor presses a finger to his ribs and Lance gasps, head snapping forward.

Pain erupts in his side, far fiercer than before, and Lance decides it’d be a good thing to examine himself at least a little.

Blue and purple wraps around his chest, spreading from his side out like a plague. His skin doesn’t look like skin anymore, swollen and puffy, with not even a hint of healing.

Lotor presses his fingers down again, and Lance cries out.

Without thinking he grabs forward, purely instinctively, and grabs onto Lotor’s arm, biting his lip to keep tears from spilling.

“This won’t do,” Lotor says, a second before he scoops Lance in his arms effortlessly, lifting him off the cold floor without as much as even a grunt, soap still bubbling in Lance’s hair.

“W-Where are you taking me?” Lance asks, out of breath and feeling like he might pass out any second. Lotor pulls him closer as he makes his way through the doors, and Lance rests his head against Lotor’s shoulder, too exhausted to keep it up himself anymore.

“Your bones aren’t healing properly,” Lotor says, carrying Lance through the silent hallways, ignoring the undoubtedly surprised looks from the guards he passes. “If we don’t heal them now, they might slice through your lungs.”

Lane bristles. That’s an unpleasant thought.

His mind feels foggy. All he sees is the crevice of Lotor’s neck, and the white hair that flows behind it, but they fade out from time to time.

Lance mumbles something, his mouth working ahead of his mind, and it takes a while to register what he’s saying.

“Lotor,” he whimpers, his blood pulsing through his torso uncomfortably, and his head pounding, “please don’t let me die.”

Lance can’t remember any more.


	2. Chapter 2

When Lance falls out of the cryopod, he hits the ground, hard. He coughs, his hands flying to his ribs nearly instinctively, only to find no pain there. He sighs in relief.

He slowly opens his eyes, but the dark walls and dim lights of the infirmary prove easy enough for his eyes to get used to in just a few ticks.

He barely registers the feet right in front of his face before one of them shoots under his chin, pushing his head up none-too-gently. Lance grunts, forgetting the rules for just a second.

Lotor towers over him, his beautiful face twisted into a scowl that sends shivers down Lance’s spine. “If you hadn’t passed out, you might’ve been out of there a whole lot sooner,” Lotor says, not a trace of the concern Lance witnessed earlier evident in his voice. “As punishment, I think I’ll send you to the arena.”

Lance stills completely, his chin pressing against Lotor’s sharp boot.

The arena, the _one_ place Shiro ever talked about.

Lance can’t help it – he lets loose a terrified whimper. That’s a mistake.

Lotor’s face contorts in anger and he shoves Lance’s face away, before grabbing his arm roughly, his vice-like grip digging painfully into Lance’s flesh.

“No! Please, let me go!” Lance yells as Lotor drags him away, and Lance stumbles in an attempt to gain his footing. “Lotor, don’t do this! I’ll do anything, just- please!”

But Lotor pays no attention to him. He only yanks Lance’s arm with so much force every time he attempts to walk on his own, Lance feels like his arm is being torn off.

And his pleas, his sobs, his shameful _begging_ and screaming only bounce off the walls, with mere silence receiving it.

It hits Lance like a slap in the face – there’s no one there.

He’s all alone.

* * *

 

Lotor doesn’t even bother giving Lance armor, or anything to protect himself. All he has around his bare skin is the purple cryopod suit of the Galra, and it’s far too thin to even slow down any incoming strikes.

He hears the roar of the crows just outside the dark tunnel, their fiery, cruel excitement sending terrified shivers through Lance’s body.

He jumps as one of the guards shoves his shoulder roughly, prodding for him to start walking. Lance scowls and takes a deep breath, the rancid smell of vomit and urine from the nearby cells filling his nose.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Lance spits, and the guard releases him, startled. Lance feels a strong satisfaction at that – he may be absolutely terrified of Lotor, but a bunch of lowlife Galra guards are nothing to him.

His moment of triumph doesn’t last long however, because the guards gets back from his initial shock and shoves Lance even harder. He stumbles forward, his balance greatly impaired by the heavy shackles keeping his hands together.

The dull drone of the crowd grows louder and louder, until Lance steps out into the light, and it’s deafening him, drowning out all other sound.

The arena is packed, completely.

Lance can’t seem to even bite a remark as the guards undo his chains and kick him forward – all he can do is gape in a horrified daze at the thousands of Galra jeering down at him.

Lance lets his gaze travel down to the other side of the arena, his calloused thumb nervously rubbing circles into the flesh of his wrists. His eyes slot to the gates opposite him, and he stills.

His opponent is _massive._

It’s a Galra man – one far bigger than any Lance has ever seen – donned in the rags Lance has seen the other prisoners wear, his deep purple fur matted with what looks like blood, and his small, yellow eyes glinting wickedly.

Terror slams into him, and for the first time since he got captured, he lets his team into his mind.

They appear in front of him. First Keith, then Pidge, with Matt behind her; Hunk, Allura, Coran, all wearing the same, somber expression, like they already know the outcome of this fight. None of them look quite right – though Lance can’t tell why.

Lance feels a hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t have to turn around to know it’s Shiro. The others disappear, leaving Lance to face the Galra, to watch him swing his arms and grin menacingly. He feels Shiro lean in close, his cold breath ghosting over the shell of Lance’s ear.

“You can’t let them have you,” Shiro says. His voice sounds wrong – distant and distorted – not quite Shiro. But Lance clings to it anyway, and to the way the metal of Shiro’s hand is firm on Lance’s shoulder, Shiro’s strong arm pressed against Lance’s. “Stay alive.”

Lance wants to ask when they’ll come for him, how he’s supposed to stay _alive_ , why Shiro isn’t saying anything else, but then he remembers that this Shiro isn’t real. It’s not like the living Shiro would have the answers anyway.

Shiro fades away, and Lance is left feeling exactly the same. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice booms overhead, and the crowd roars even louder. Lance takes this time to look around the arena. There’s a rack of weapons – including a rifle – lines in the middle of the plain. If he can just make it to them in time, he may just survive longer than a minute.

“Today we have a very _special_ contestant with us,” the voice says, and Lance swallows thickly, his throat suddenly dry. “The former pilot for both the red _and_ the blue lions – the blue paladin!”

The stadium erupts in jeers and angry shouts. Lance supposes him being here is more of a spectacle than when Shiro was – after all, Shiro wasn’t part of Voltron back then.

Lance wonders, for a fleeting moment, if they’ll allow him to die. The way Lotor made it seem, Haggar and her druids view him as a valuable asset – a means to obtain information. But then, Lotor is the one in control right now, and depending on his mood, he’s not one to care if Lance gets hurt.

“And on the other side we have our current, undefeated champion! Will he be able to defeat a pilot of the most powerful weapon in the universe, or is this human nothing like the black paladin?”

Lance flinches despite himself. He’s fully aware the commentator is only trying to rile him up, but then it’s kind of true, isn’t it? Shiro is unrivalled in hand-to-hand combat, while Lance is merely a sniper. If Shiro struggled here, then Lance won’t last at all.

A loud ring sounds, and the Galra charges forward, his yellow, rotten teeth flashing at Lance.

Lance panics and runs forward, desperate to get to the gun before his opponent. It’s pretty clear, though, that he won’t – the Galra is far too fast, and he gets there within seconds.

To Lance’s utter dismay, the brute grabs onto the gun and snaps it with his massive hands – Lance realizes that as public enemy number seven in the Galra empire, his skill set must be pretty well-known. A resounding crack travels over the excited cheers of the crowd.

Well, he’s absolutely fucked.

Racking his brain for a plan, Lance alters his course a little to the left, so that when he reaches the middle, the rack will be between him and the Galra.

Lance runs as fast as he can, hoping to at least catch the Galra off guard a little, but by the time he reaches the rack, the Galra has chosen a massive battle axe, and is swinging it around like it weight absolutely nothing at all.

“Fuck,” Lance mutters under his breath. The Galra must’ve heard him, because he grins, and suddenly Lance feels like throwing up.

With a great, bone-chilling roar, the Galra swings his axe forward, toppling over the rack and nearly cleaving clean through Lance – if he hadn’t jumped back, this fight would’ve been over already.

Luckily for Lance, the Galra’s swipe at him has scattered all the weapons over the floor. Lance dives for the nearest one, tucking into a roll and getting to his feet smoothly. He looks down and sees he’s picked up a spear. It’s got a heavy steel tip, and the wooden pole is chipped and flawed. It’s an old and used weapon Lance has absolutely no experience with, apart from fishing, but he supposes he’s got to make do.

Before Lance can even figure out how to hold it, however, he has to duck away from the deadly axe again. He comes up, out of breath and staring at the axe buried deep in the sand in a daze, right by his feet. Fear courses through him and he scrambles away, fully aware of the condescending laughter from above.

 _Fuck._ He’s out of breath already, and his heart’s beating erratically. This isn’t any different from other fights Lance has been in, but knowing his team doesn’t have his back this time is something Lance hasn’t experienced yet, and it’s setting him on edge.

Meanwhile the Galra seems to have figured out Lance is quicker. He changes his stance, lowering himself – though still standing a whole meter taller than Lance – and swinging his axe loosely.

When he attacks again, Lance can tell something has shifted. The Galra swings less powerfully now, but quicker and more recklessly, like he’s merely trying to graze Lance.

 _He’s figured out you’re not powerful like Shiro,_ Lance thinks. He shakes the thought off – that may be so, but there are other ways to defeat someone.

So Lance keeps ducking and rolling and jumping away, desperately looking for an opening, for some weakness he can exploit, while the Galra keeps swinging, tiring him out seemingly effortlessly.

The crowd has gotten impatient. The angry jeers are louder than ever, and when Lance dares to look up for a second, the seats are far emptier than before.

That was a mistake.

Lance doesn’t get enough time to spot the incoming swing soon enough. His breath catches in his throat and his heart thumps as he realizes his situation.

If he steps back now, he’ll still be cleaved through. If he ducks, he’ll be too late.

With adrenaline rushing through his veins, Lance steps forward, and in some desperate, hopeless attempt, jabs his spear forward.

The wood just below the axe’s blade slams into Lance’s shoulder, and he’s thrown to the side, the spear wrenched from his grip, pain erupting everywhere when he lands like a rag doll, rolling through the sand.

Lance cries out, but he forces himself to lift his head and pry open his watering eyes. His vision clears just soon enough for him to see the Galra crumple to the ground, spear protruding from his belly.

Relief washes through Lance, and he lets out a choked sob, but it’s not enough to take the edge off. As the crowd quiets down in disbelief, Lance keeps his eyes peeled for a next opponent.

But none come.

Two guards pick him off the floor, and Lance groans at the lack of care with which they carry him. His shoulder has settled to throbbing painfully, his head swims with every step he takes, and he’s near blind in the darkness of the corridors, so very different from the brightly lit arena, but he forces himself to stay awake. He can already guess where he’s being taken, and it would be a bad idea to do anything less than entirely obedient.

Sure enough, the dark tunnels quickly lead to warm lights and clean floors of the commander’s wings. The guards stand up straighter when they arrive in front of Lotor’s door, and Lance struggles to keep his breathing steady.

“Come in,” Lotor’s deep voice sounds from beyond the door, which slides open with a hiss to reveal the darkened chambers Lance has hoped never to return to again.

Lance is showed inside unceremoniously, and he blinks rapidly to adjust to the dimmed lights of the room.

Lotor stands by the bed, fingers around the clasp of his armor at his neck, looking not at Lance but at the guards, and with one nod they leave.

“Come with me.”

Lotor sounds cold, detached – the ways he does whenever Lance does something wrong – like Lance is some stranger with vaguely annoying habits that get on Lotor’s nerves.

Lance hurriedly moves out of the way as Lotor strides past him, and hastily falls into step behind him, heart racing and breath quick.

He doesn’t look where they’re going – he doesn’t want to know. He keeps his gaze fixed on Lotor’s heels, and desperately tries to ignore the throbbing in his shoulder, and the way Lotor’s silence terrifies him.

Lance wonders if Lotor watched him today at the arena. He doesn’t see why he would, but there’s some strange feeling inside him he can’t quite place, but it’s unpleasant and Lance realizes he would be disappointed if Lotor didn’t watch.

After all, Lotor is the reason he was in there, right? It would make perfect sense for him to want to make sure Lotor was satisfied with his performance, seeing Lotor has Lance’s life in his hands. Lance bites the inside of his cheek – he shouldn’t care what Lotor thinks of him, but fear has been driving him in many strange ways he won’t admit.

He nearly walks into Lotor when he suddenly stops, sunken deep in his thoughts. If Lotor notices, he doesn’t comment on it. Lance dares to look up, and sees Lotor pressing a complicated code into an access pad.

The door they stopped in front of opens with a hiss and they step inside. Lance looks around curiously.

The room is lit brightly – even more so than the arena. The walls consist of black tiles, and there’s a pool in the middle of the room – wide and roughly circular like the pool the druids held Lance in, but there’s no black water here. Lined along the walls are weapons, held up by separate holders and arranged neatly by type.

Lance regards the room with wariness. He just barely made it out of the last arena, and his shoulder is still in no condition to be used again – he isn’t sure if he’ll even be able to lift a weapon should he be made to fight again.

He hesitates when Lotor walks down to the center, not sure if Lotor wants him to follow.

“Come here,” Lotor says, effectively throwing away any doubts Lance has. He’ll be made to fight again, for sure, but this time he won’t make it out alive. He was lucky last time.

To Lance’s surprise, however, Lotor merely walks to one of the walls and pulls something out from behind it. It’s small and blue, with two vague arcs that-

Lance can’t contain his gasp.

Holding it gently in his hand, like some sacred artifact, Lotor carries the blue bayard back to the center of the room, his face void of emotion, but his shoulders hunched – almost as if he’s scared of dropping the bayard.

He holds it out, eyes expectant. Lance just stares.

“Take it,” Lotor says when Lance refuses to move for a minute or so, eyes wide as he looks at the bayard. It’s still in top condition – unscathed and gleaming with that pull Lance always feels.

Lotor sighs and shoves the bayard into Lance’s hand.

This has to be a trap.

The bayard fits perfectly and comfortably in his hand, and that familiar feeling of power that suddenly comes rushing back to him. Lance sighs, more so in grief than in relief, and it doesn’t go unnoticed this time.

“Don’t get any ideas – you still won’t be able to defeat me with that thing,” says Lotor matter-of-factly. He isn’t bragging, Lance realizes, just stating the harsh truth.

Lance manages not to flinch when Lotor leans in closer, his fingers closing around his wrists, but his breath hitches and his heart races uncomfortably.

“Did your princess ever show you this?”

Lotor reaches to the base of the bayard – at the end of one of the arcs – and presses, pointing the bayard away from them both. Immediately it starts to flicker like it does when it materializes, but instead of the rifle Lance has gotten so used to over the months, something longer, thinner and sharper appears.

A broadsword.

“W-what is this?” Lance splutters. The hilt, of course, feels perfectly balanced in his hand, and it’s not like the swords at the castle that always feel so awkward in his hand.

He looks up at Lotor and sees at least a little of his own surprise reflected in Lotor’s eyes.

“Uh,” Lotor says, but then he seems to compose himself. He clears his throat and continues. “All bayards has the ability to switch between long-range and short-range – it merely presents that which it feels is best suited for its paladin.”

Lance swallows thickly. “Why did Allura never show me this?” he says, more to himself than to Lotor.

“Because you already had an equal amount of short-range and long-range fighters,” Lotor says with a shrug. He doesn’t seem to notice the panic rising in Lance.

What does this mean? Why a broadsword? How come Allura never bothered to train them in both styles of fighting?

“This doesn’t make any sense – I’m shit with swords.

At that, Lotor lets out a low, chuckle. It’s a genuine sound, and Lance finds himself feeling warm just listening to it. He shakes his head – Lotor probably knows that and is doing it on purpose. It’s just that his voice is nice, and that’s the end of it.

“Your rifle may be the best weapon suited to you, but the Altean broadsword is your short-range weapon, according to your quintessence,” Lotor says, his voice dropping low, almost like a purr. Lance wishes he would stop there but he doesn’t. “Such potential…”

It’s almost as if Lotor hadn’t meant to say that, because he trails off and stills, but Lance hears it anyway, and he feels his eyes grow wide with shock.

Nobody – not Shiro, not Allura, not Hunk, not Pidge, and certainly not Keith – has ever told him that. At the Garrison, Iverson would scorn at him, scold him, tell him he was no good. At home, though his parents meant well, he lived in the shadow of his siblings and their brilliant shine.

But here he is, being told by someone he fears more than anything he’s ever feared, someone who has been beating him for _weeks,_ the second most dangerous man in the known universe, that he has potential.

Lance chokes.

Lotor abruptly strides away, and takes another sword from the wall. This one is longer, slimmer and shines a wicked dark color suitable for a Galra. It’s slightly curved, like the swords Lance saw often in the museums.

_Oh shit._

Lotor stands on the other end of the pool, sword held comfortably in his hand, feet slightly apart. He looks relaxed, but there’s no mistaking the stance – he wants Lance to fight him.

Lance’s heart pounds, and blood rushes through his ears. He can’t fight Lotor – he’ll die for sure! Even if Lotor isn’t as an experienced fighter as Allura made him out to be, Lance can’t fight with a sword to save his life, and probably even a child could beat him if it tried.

But Lance holds up his sword anyway, because damn him if he doesn’t try. And who knows, maybe he’ll be able to blunder his way through like he did in the arena.

As soon as Lance has taken a somewhat acceptable stance Lotor charges forward, blade swinging loosely with effortless flicks of his wrist. Adrenaline courses through Lance and he flicks the sword to the side, attempting to mimic the wrist movement Lotor does.

The sword moves with him easily, but Lance isn’t fast enough. Lotor is like a whirlwind, twisting and lashing and stabbing with demon speed, far faster than Lance can follow.

The fight is over before Lance can ever register. He manages to deflect only a few attacks, but then Lotor twists his sword and Lance’s bayard is wrenched from his grip and he’s staring into Lotor’s eyes as he leans down, blade pressed to Lance’s throat. His shoulder throbs painfully, but he manages to keep a straight face, unsure if his pride would be able to take Lotor’s satisfaction at having hurt Lance more.

Lance is breathing heavily, sweat beading on his brow, but Lotor seems completely unaffected.

Lotor takes the blade from Lance’s throat, but he remains close, his warm breath ghosting over Lance’s nose, a smirk slowly creeping on his lips.

“I have to say,” he says, and god, his voice is low again. It sends shivers running down Lance’s spine, and he quakes, fear of Lotor and shame of being defeated so easily coursing through him like a freight train, “you held out longer than I expected.”

Then he’s gone, and Lance is left to trail in his wake again.

The bayard shifts back to its dormant form, like Lance is used to it being, but all he can do is stare at it, like it’s some strange creature he’s never seen before.

Again his team comes to mind, but now it’s only their voices, and they’re whispering in his head. They’re saying terrible things, and Lance can’t focus on any of them because it’s like there’s _thousands,_ telling him he’s not worth anything.

 _Not now, Lance,_ they say. _Why can’t you just take things seriously. Keith and Shiro would have done so much better against Lotor, they would’ve been better with their alternate bayards, too._

_You’re less of a nuisance where you are now. But even now, you burden Lotor._

Lance closes his eyes and shuts the voices out, because they sound too much like his friends, and they would never say anything like this.

He looks up, and glares daggers into Lotor’s back. Whatever twisted game he’s playing, Lance will do whatever to win it. He’ll show him that underestimating the blue paladin is the worst mistake he ever made.

But still… why was it Lotor who praised him, for lack of a better word. He’d seemed – surprised when the broadsword came up. And his face when he defeated Lance with ease, it was pleased, Lance is sure of it.

Lost in thought, his mind a confusing mess, Lance doesn’t notice when Lotor halts in front of his chamber doors, and so he collides with Lotor’s broad back, and lands hard on his ass.

Expecting the worst, Lance screws his eyes shut, awaiting the fiery blow that’s sure to come. The air in the corridor grows cold, and Lance shivers, heart beating erratically. So much for winning the game.

Lance bites the inside of his lip – he’s such a fucking coward. Disgust rises up in his throat, and he chokes back a sob.

“You’re clumsy,” says Lotor, voice casual and light.

Moments pass.

When Lance dares to open his eyes again, Lotor is already inside the room, stripping off his armor, his back turned to Lance.

Lance swallows and gets to his feet, creeping inside the room as silently as possible.

He stands by the entrance, shifting his feet nervously, intertwining his fingers and then untangling them behind his back.

“Take off your shirt,” Lotor says, not bothering to turn to face Lance – not like he expected anything else.

Lance does as he’s told, peeling the tight suit from his sticky-with-sweat back, sighing softly in relief when cool air brushes gently over his burning skin. He glances down at his shoulder and sees the bruised and swollen skin, painted with purple and red and blue, webbing out to his bicep.

Lotor turns, his eyes immediately traveling from Lance’s face, to his neck and then his collarbone and shoulder. He has a small container in his hand, the top twisted off, and a green substance held within

“Come here.”

As Lance approaches Lotor, for once he doesn’t feel on edge. It may be because he’s tired and the work of today is finally catching up to him, but likely also because Lotor spoke softly, and Lance recognizes the look in his eyes.

He won’t hurt Lance now.

Lotor slowly reaches out and brushes his fingers gently over Lance’s shoulder, stilling when Lance flinches. Then he dips his fingers in the salve and smears it over the bruise, his fingers light and caring.

It burns, but not unpleasantly so. Lance lets himself sag a little as his muscle is forced into relaxation, and he lets loose a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. He feels pleasant, relaxed even, and he feels himself drifting, leaning into Lotor’s soothing touch. His eyes flutter shut.

He must’ve made some kind of sound, because Lotor shushes him.

“I want you to start training with me.”

Lance’s eyes snap open.

Lotor is looking down at him, standing far too close, his fingers brushing over Lance’s forearm. His eyes are soft, but his words are definitely not a request.

“Why?” says Lance breathlessly. He expects Lotor to be irritated, but instead the corner of his mouth tugs up.

“That sword was like King Alfor’s sword. I’ve heard enough from my father to know only the greatest warriors wielded broadswords. It’d be a waste if I didn’t teach you what I know.”

Lance doesn’t know what makes him do it. Maybe it’s the confusion of being told he has potential as a warrior, or the adrenaline still lingering in his system, or the soothing, deep tone of Lotor’s voice that sends shivers running down his spine uncomfortably, but Lance surges up and presses his lips to Lotor’s with fervor.

He expects Lotor to push him away – he _wants_ Lotor to push him away, to throw him onto the floor and look at him in disgust, to lock him up in that awful cell again, to give him to the druids – _anything._

But he doesn’t.

Lotor leans down, pressing his soft mouth firmer to Lance’s, whisking away the hesitation lingering there. His strong arms circle around Lance’s waist, pulling him close.

_What am I doing?!_

But Lance doesn’t care. It’s just a way to get into Lotor’s head, right?

Right.

Lance presses forward, pushing Lotor back, until they hit the bed, and Lotor falls back, but Lance stays upright.

Lotor looks up at him with hooded, dark eyes, his tongue snaking out to wet his lips, and it’s all the encouragement Lance needs. 

He clambers on top of Lotor, pressing his mouth to his neck, right where the vein is. Lotor’s skin tastes like sweat and is warm and gross and Lance can’t get _enough._ Lotor’s hands leave burning trails where they roam over Lance’s bared skin, teasing and indulging.

Suddenly daring, Lance rolls his hips down, need and lust spurring him on like a whip, and he groans when he feels Lotor’s want is just as strong as his own, the friction glorious against his clothed cock.

Lance pries his fingers under Lotor’s shirt, daring, and Lotor gets the message, pushing Lance away to pull his shirt over his head, attacking Lance’s mouth with his own before the shirt even hits the floor.

Lance’s hands explore the smooth lines of Lotor’s hard chest, the raised edges of his scars and relishing in the warmth he finds there. In turn, Lotor’s hands keep his steady, resting firmly on his hip and on the back of his head.

“Fuck,” Lance growls against Lotor’s mouth, and Lotor takes the opportunity to push his tongue past Lance’s lips. The kiss turns wetter, sloppier, better and Lance moans, rolling down his hips again.

Lotor’s hands travel down, until his fingers hook into Lance’s pants, and Lance stills, suddenly hesitant.

“Off,” Lotor says, his voice low and raspy and out of breath – it’s fucking hot and Lance does as he’s told, as usual, but he can’t be bothered to push his pants down very far. His erection springs free, _finally,_ and Lance sighs in relief, though he’s still painfully hard.

When Lotor’s warm hand closes around his shaft, Lance has to break away from Lotor’s mouth to gasp against his neck, the feeling overwhelming and _good._

Lotor grips him like none of the girls ever thought they could – firm and tight – and occurs to Lance that this is his first time with a male, but he doesn’t care, because the pleasure is building up in his lower abdomen and he’s not going to last long.

Determined not to be the only one undone, Lance fumbles with the zipper on Lotor’s pants, feeling him chuckle against his ear.

Lotor’s cock fits his frame – it’s big in Lance’s hand, and for a moment he feels self-conscious of his own size, but then Lotor lets loose a breathless huff and Lance forgets about it entirely.

Lance pumps Lotor’s cock, drinking in his faster breathing, his heartbeat against Lance’s lips – any signs of Lotor’s control breaking. He moans, whimpers and pants as Lotor’s hands slick with his precum, creating a slide that feels _so good._

Unable to stop himself, Lance rolls his hips down again, desperate for more friction.

“Shit.”

It’s barely audible, low and raspy, but it’s definitely Lotor’s beautiful voice. Lance pulls away for a second just to watch Lotor’s eyes screw shut, his mouth parted and a moan slip past his lips. Lotor rolls his hips up – seemingly by accident – at the same time Lance pushes down, and he groans, loudly, and it’s all Lance needs.

His orgasm rips through him, leaving him a moaning, shivering mess against Lotor’s chest, and Lotor soon follows, painting their bellies white, groaning against Lance’s chest as he sucks at the skin there, surely leaving marks.

They don’t bother with washing up.

Lotor merely brushes away the worst of it from the both of them, strips entirely and then pulls Lance’s pants off his limp legs. Then, with surprising care, he lays Lance under the blanket, before lying to face him, his face slack and sated.

His breath evens out quickly.

Lance is left staring at Lotor’s peaceful face, horror and confusion slowly building in his chest.

_What the fuck did he just do?_

The voices creep back. They call him a slut, scorning him, cursing at him, wishing him death, but Lance tunes them out, biting his lip to stifle the sobs that tear from his chest.

He feels disgusted, both with himself and with Lotor, for doing this. Except it wasn’t Lotor who did this to him – Lance did this himself. What would the others think of him?

Lance already knows the answer.

Tears stream steadily down his face, onto the soft pillow.

Lotor doesn’t wake, and quickly, brain blurry with exhaustion, Lance drifts too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are appreciated ;)

**Author's Note:**

> comments are always appreciated ;)


End file.
